


The Night Is All We Have

by Jenetica



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Toys, Slow Build, barely underage, semi-AU: everyone lives and the pack is happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 01:52:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenetica/pseuds/Jenetica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Okay, they can't hear us. I'm assuming this is about your text last night? You should know that what you do in your free time is your business, Stiles.”</p><p>Stiles' heart clenches. That's such a casual dismissal, like Stiles wouldn't <em>kill<em></em></em> to have Derek up in his business during his free time. It riles Stiles' blood, because Derek should try being a little fucking considerate, okay? “Yeah, well fuck you too, Derek. Not all of us are built like underwear models, so back the fuck off and leave me in my masturbatory peace.”</p><p> ~*~*~</p><p> <em>Or, the one in which Stiles buys himself a vibrator and Derek tries not to care.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Night Is All We Have

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is dedicated to and inspired by my best friend, Megan. She took me to a sex shop this past week and, in my excitement, I almost texted my crush instead of her. Almost, thank God. But it got me thinking, what would have happened? And this fic was born.
> 
> This is my first voyage into present tense (which seems to be a fan favorite here aboard the SS Sterek), so let me know if you see any tense inconsistencies. 
> 
> Title is a bastardized line from Bastille's "Laura Palmer."
> 
> See the end for warnings.

_Hey, what kind of vibrator should I buy? What do you recommend?_ Stiles taps out, hitting send quickly. Lydia's been talking about how magnificent her vibrator is for about six weeks, and funny, how her relationship with Aiden ended soon after that, but who is Stiles to say? Oh, that's right, her best friend. Aiden is lousy at sex. Ha.  
  
But Lydia's horrible taste in men isn't the point, it's simply the instigator. Lydia has been raving about her vibrator (now vibrator _s_ ) for so long now that Stiles just _has_ to try it out. And, well, his epically horrible crush on Grumpy McMuttonchops is still horrible and epic, so what is some fun between a himself and a piece of plastic?  
  
That's right, nothing.  
  
 _I wouldn't know_ , comes the reply. But of _course_ Lydia would know, unless.... Stiles makes a sound like a dying whale. Above the text message, in tiny letters, reads, "From: Der-Bear.” He sent that text message to _Derek_. Fuck his life.  
  
The next pack meeting is tomorrow, and Stiles resolves to confront Derek about it like a man. A brave, non-awkward man who would totally be buying a vibrator for non-pathetic reasons. Jerking off to someone other than his supernaturally hot Alpha, for example.  
  
Stiles falls into an uncomfortable sleep, dreaming of Derek taunting him with a hot pink monstrosity with silicone spikes and six vibrate settings. When he wakes, hard and hating himself, Stiles tries not to take that dream too seriously.  
  
The school day passes in a blur because Stiles is too wrapped up in what he's going to say to Derek to pay any attention in class. Thank God Lydia's his second-best friend, because she passes him her notes wordlessly. Stiles thinks of Scott and how terrible his notes are because he spends all his time ogling Allison, and wonders if maybe Lydia deserves a promotion.  
  
He runs home after school to change, because he's a nervous sweater and this day has been among his top ten most nerve-wracking days ever, but his dad stops him before he can race through the door.  
  
“You okay, son?” he says, flicking through a case file absentmindedly. Stiles sees the purposeful nonchalance for what it is, and affects his own too-casual stance.  
  
“Sure, why wouldn't it be?”  
  
“Well, you're about to meet with a pack of werewolves to discuss training, in case a violent, supernatural threat rips through town, threatening everyone you care about. This is the third of these meetings in as many weeks, and the eleventh time you've driven out to the preserve to practice your fighting skills, or whatever it is Derek has you doing.” Stiles dislikes the way his dad says that: he has magnificent fighting skills, thanks. “Your grades aren't slipping, but the bags under your eyes suggest you haven't slept in a few nights, probably because you spend your free time learning everything you can about the supernatural world. I think I have reason to make sure my seventeen-year-old son is doing okay, considering those circumstances.”  
  
Stiles puffs out a breath, completely impressed. “You want a pipe and deerstalker with that assessment, Mr. Holmes?” His dad shoot his a look, unimpressed. He's long grown used to Stiles' diversionary tactics. “Ugh, alright, you bulldog. I'm okay, okay? It's just been quiet lately, which is something I'm learning to fear. It usually precedes a storm, and we have no idea what type of storm is coming, so I want to be prepared for anything. Don't worry, I'm not abusing my Adderall. I've been drinking coffee.”  
  
“Is the pack putting you up to this?” The Sheriff abandons his charade of reading a police report. “Are they making you wear yourself thin on research?” 'They' meaning Derek, of course. Stiles feels a tug of affection for his dad who, despite seeing Derek save countless lives countless times, still has trouble trusting a man he once thought to be an convict.  
  
“No, Dad,” he says, scratching at the side of his face. “Derek hasn't asked anything of me.” No matter how much Stiles wanted Derek to ask of him, or maybe demand of him. Command him, even. And those were definitely thoughts he shouldn't be having in front of his father. “Uh, I mean, this research stuff is all me. You know how it is, they're all grr,” he bares his teeth and curls his fingers, “and I'm all, well, _not_. Might as well be the token geek, then, right? Makes me useful.”  
  
“Oh son,” the Sheriff says, shaking his head sadly. “You're plenty useful. You don't need to work yourself to the bone to prove something to your friends.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Stiles shrugs, embarrassed, “I'd rather not put that social experiment to the test. So, we good? I have to get going.” To explain to his intimidating crush that his erroneous text message was a complete mistake that was best left forgotten, preferably forever.  
  
“Yeah, son,” the Sheriff sighs, looking old, “we're good. Will you be home for dinner?”  
  
And Stiles feels like complete shit, because he's the one putting those wrinkles on his dad's face. He's the one that almost made him lose his career. He's a shitty son, and it makes his reply feel that much shittier. “Um, Derek's getting a bunch of pizzas?” His dad's face falls slightly. “But I'll be home as soon as I can,” Stiles rushes to say, “and I'll bring you a slice!”  
  
The Sheriff's face brightens considerably, because Stiles never lets him have pizza. “Sounds good, Stiles. See you then!”  
  
Stiles smiles weakly at his dad, horrified that he's guilt-tripping himself into giving the Sheriff unhealthy food, and leaves the house. He's always felt at home in his Jeep, trusty blue Betsy with the blown right front speaker and the flaky transmission, and today is no exception to that rule. Stress, fatigue, worry, and nerves are pressed into the pavement by Betsy's tires, mile after mile. By the time Stiles gets to the preserve he feels ten pounds lighter, ready to confront Derek and settle this miscommunication once and for all.  
  
He's one of the last to arrive, but he doesn't let that deter him. “Hey Derek, can we talk?” he asks before he even gets fully through the door. Derek turns to him and Stiles' heartbeat upticks, because _of course_ today is the day that Derek would choose to wear his tightest jeans and most flattering moss green v-neck. Stiles almost hates the way his own pants start to tighten, hates the way he knows his arousal is a scent that werewolves can smell, hates the way he can't even pretend to dislike Derek anymore.  
  
“Sure,” Derek says easily. “Outside.” Where the rest of the pack wouldn't be able to eavesdrop. Stiles appreciates that. They both walk out of the house, remodeled with a screen door and everything, and make their way to the edge of the forest. “Okay, they can't hear us. I'm assuming this is about your text last night? You should know that what you do in your free time is your business, Stiles.”  
  
Stiles' heart clenches. That's such a casual dismissal, like Stiles wouldn't _kill_ to have Derek up in his business during his free time. It riles Stiles' blood, because Derek should try being a little fucking considerate, okay? “Yeah, well fuck you too, Derek. Not all of us are built like underwear models, so back the fuck off and leave me in my masturbatory peace.” And wow, those were words he never expected to say aloud.  
  
"… That's what I thought I was doing?" Derek cocks his head at him thoughtfully. Stiles, always a font of idle chatter, can't bring himself to break the silence. Still, Derek's cool assessment is unsettling, and Stiles just wishes he could get to the condescending comments part of the conversation so they could go back inside.  
  
“So did you buy it?” Derek asked after several long seconds. It's enough to startle Stiles, even more when the words register in his brain.  
  
“Buy what?” he asks stupidly. Surely Derek didn't mean--  
  
“The vibrator,” he replies, and Jesus but Derek shouldn't be allowed to say those sorts of things out loud. Stiles feels his stomach lurch in a not-unpleasant way.  
  
“Uh, no,” he stammers, drawing his arms up into his armpits. “Not yet.”  
  
“Let me know what you pick out.” Derek's cool gaze heats up a little and Stiles' stomach lurches again.  
  
“What?” he chokes out, blinking rapidly.  
  
“We should go back inside,” Derek says in lieu of a reply. “We're already late starting.”  
  
Stiles follows him numbly, wondering what just happened and why he's suddenly feeling hot under the collar. Did Derek just _flirt_ with him? Sexually? Is that what just happened? Is that even a possibility in this mortal plane?

His questions are never answered. The meeting feels like every other meeting they've had since the start of the school year: relaxing and mildly annoying. Scott is a warm presence by his side, even though he always steals slices of pizza off Stiles plate because he's too lazy to lean forward and grab one for himself. Derek outlines the training schedule for the following week, stressing how important it is to keep up on fitness even though school is putting a crimp in everyone's schedules. Erica hurls harmless barbs at him, to which he responds without heat. Lydia demands that she get more time off because her skills aren't fitness related and she's currently in four college courses as well as her full high school courseload. Stiles tried to ask how that was legal, once, and Lydia about bit his head off in reply. Since then, he's known better than to question her impossible brain.  
  
It's comfortable in a way that Stiles' own home isn't. It's filled with easy jokes and easier laughter, even when Jackson's being his typical douchey self. Sometimes, late at night, he wonders if this is what normal families feel like. Losing his mom had taken a lot of the joy out of the Stilinski household and, though her death is now a shiny pink scar instead of the open wound it once was, Stiles and his dad never have openly companionable moments. Stiles isn't sure if his dad would ever have those again.  
  
The meeting ends quickly enough, and everyone in the pack gets an itemized schedule for the next week. It's color coded and everything. Stiles reminds himself to discover just when Derek discovered Microsoft Excel or, actually, any computer. It doesn't seem like it would be his area.  
  
The schedules vary according to skill sets. Isaac and Scott usually work on hand-to-hand combat while Erica and Jackson try to outmaneuver each other in the obstacle course they'd set up in the spring. Boyd works on strength training with Derek, Allison does her archery thing, and Stiles and Lydia crack down on the books. They switch it up, of course, and seeing Boyd try to crawl between nets on the obstacle course is truly a sight to behold. Stiles knows firsthand how much those nets suck.  
  
It's all part of Derek's new (and, frankly, wise) plan to focus on the individual strengths of his pack members, with just enough general training to keep them prepared for any situation. For example, Jackson is the most stealthy of the werewolves and can do discreet missions like a freaking ninja, but he also knows how to use the digitized bestiary Stiles and Lydia have compiled and how to take on wolves twice his size, in a pinch. Some pack members are most suited to secondary tasks than others (they learned not to give Erica a bow _ever_ after her first attempt), but overall Derek has formed himself a well-rounded and skillful pack. Even Stiles is picking up some handy fighting tips, and he'd been sure he was hopeless in the field of battle. Turns out his arm flails are really good when he's clutching a knife in each fist. Whoodathunk?  
  
Stiles doesn't remember his awkward conversation with Derek until later that night, when he opens his laptop and finds a tab open on an online sex shop. He contemplates texting Lydia about it, because he never really got an answer, but he's semi-terrified of a repeat performance with Derek and leaves his phone untouched. Instead he picks the vibrator with the best ratings and clicks the checkout button. All that's left to do is wait.  
  
His package comes four days later, while his father is (thankfully) out on patrol. Stiles hurries upstairs and slices through the packing tape, pulling out the vibrator with childlike fascination. This is it, a real life sex toy, friend to lonely housewives and desperate teenagers across the nation. And now Stiles has one. Oh, that description makes this sound a lot less triumphant than Stiles intended it to sound. Oops.  
  
The toy boasts five speed settings and near-silent vibrate action. Stiles didn't even consider what kind of sounds a vibrator makes when he ordered one, but his cop dad would most likely not approve. Stiles chose wisely.  
  
Speaking of, there's no dad here now, so even if the vibrator is noisy as hell it will go unnoticed. Perfect time to give it a test run. Stiles tears off his clothes and lies on his bed, lube and vibrator at the ready. He pulls up his favorite freebie porn website and clicks on a video captioned "Young twink gets used by Rob and loves it!!!" Porn could really use better titles. Of course, it's porn, so who cares?  
  
The twink is blond and obnoxiously pushy, but the other guy, Rob, is all muscles and intensity. Stiles isn't interested in the twink either way, but Rob's resemblance to a certain angsty Alpha is more than Stiles hoped for. His dick fills rapidly in anticipation, even while the twink is giving Rob a gross looking blow job. Seriously, the point isn't to get saliva everywhere, you moron. Stiles huffs and skips past this section.  
  
He stops scrubbing the video when he sees Rob fingering the twink's ass. Stiles cups a hand around his dick and tugs at it lazily. Once Rob has the twink opened up and is lubing his cock, Stiles reaches for his own bottle of lube and shuffles down the bed so he can press at his hole. He stifles a moan as one finger slips inside, while Rob is panting out gruff "fuck, yeah"s. Stiles impatiently closes the video and slides his laptop to the floor, disinterested in listening to the twink's obviously fake moans. Stiles has always been more of a fantasy guy, anyway. He fists himself in one hand while the other teases at his hole. One finger quickly becomes two, and two becomes three. Stiles pauses once to add more lube before angling his body so his fingers can just graze his prostate. It took him months to find it, but the reward is well worth the wait. Prostate stimulation makes Stiles believe God really does approve of gay sex, after all.  
  
He grabs the vibrator and slathers it in lube before pressing the cold, blunt tip to his entrance. It's as long as a cock but thinner and curved. Stiles grips the base firmly (he's found too many horror stories on Reddit to even consider letting the vibrator get stuck inside him) and pushes in slowly. The intrusion is smooth and cool, almost clinically unsexy. Stiles bites his lip and shifts, and _oh,_ there we go. He withdraws the vibrator and slides it back in, gasping shakily at how intense the stimulation is already, and he hasn't even turned the vibe on yet.  
  
A problem rectified easily enough. The vibrator works with two button instead of a switch: one button (the one with the little bump in the middle, Stiles remembers) is for power and the other is to change the setting. He presses the power button and feels the thing start to buzz. He pushes the vibrator up onto his prostate and nearly screams at the sensation. His hands are shaking so hard he can barely keep a hold of the thing, but he manages to bump the setting up a notch before thrusting it out then back in. He's coming before he knows it, shooting hot and white up his chest for what feels like several minutes. He comes back down slowly, head swirling hazily. That is undoubtedly the best orgasm Stiles has ever had in his entire life.  
  
The vibration quickly becomes unpleasant in Stiles' oversensitive body, so he turns it off and pulls it our with a thick squelching sound. Gross. He stands on wobbly legs and makes his way to the bathroom to clean himself up. He cleans the vibrator carefully, even though the packaging swears it's waterproof, and hides it away inside a sock in his dresser. He collapses facedown onto his bed and starfishes his limbs, feeling more calm than he has in his entire life. Are vibrators the magic cure to ADHD? Has Stiles just discovered the most brilliant life hack of them all?  
  
He's asleep before he can find the answer.

* * *

 Never let it be said Stiles isn't a top-notch researcher, because he discovers the ins and outs of his body like a pro after two weeks with the device he has lovingly dubbed Ricardo. He's never been more at home in his own skin, and it shows. His focus in school has improved and his social skills are more streamlined. Even his combat skills are improving. Who knew the key to greatness was a good orgasm? (Stiles thinks briefly of Genghis Khan, who sired so many children that he still makes up a significant percentage of the world's population, and bets that Genghis knew exactly what was up.) He orders another vibrator, this one slightly thicker with a sturdy base that Stiles won't have to cling to so cautiously. Six days later, he understands why the French call orgasms "the little death."  
  
People begin to notice. Stiles isn't sure what to say when Harris grills him about abusing his Adderall, so he tells him the truth and beams when Harris turns purple and hurls him out of the classroom. His friends are another story. Lydia knows his secret, of course, but Stiles can't find it in himself to tell Scott that his new-and-improved self is due to a healthy voyage into the wonders of buttsex. He certainly can't tell the rest of the pack, either. God only knows what kind of torment Jackson would put him through if he knew Stiles' not-so-little secret.  
  
He's working alone in the Hale house when Derek drops down on the floor next to him. "I take it you found what you were looking for."  
  
"Hmm?" Stiles asks around a pen cap. "Oh, yeah, turns out sirens are only a problem near large bodies of water, and we're far enough away from the coast that it's not a problem. Still, I'm cataloguing what we know just in case."  
  
"That's not what I meant," Derek says dryly. "Thanks, though."  
  
"No problem, compadre," Stiles replies, sparing Derek an easy grin. He's proud of himself: from the outside, you'd barely know that he came shouting Derek's name only that morning. He deserves an Oscar. "What'd you wanna talk about?"  
  
"You seem much more relaxed," Derek says out of the blue, and Stiles' heart thumps. He can't possibly be referencing their conversation from all those weeks ago, can he? "I'm assuming that has something to do with that text you sent me?"  
  
He _is_ referencing that conversation. Stiles swallows around his suddenly dry-as-bones mouth. "Uh, yeah, actually. Who knew that a vibrator would fix all of my life problems, right? Heh." Stiles licks his lips self-consciously, carefully avoiding eye contact. His heart is beating against his ribs like it wants out, and Stiles hates that he knows this is his breed of spank bank material.  
  
"What did you end up going for?" Derek asks. Stiles shoots him an incredulous glance because really? He wants to have this conversation right now? Stiles almost gets up and leaves on principle alone, but something in Derek's posture has him feeling vindictive. If Derek wants to know what Stiles gets up to in the privacy of his own bedroom, then Stiles will tell him.  
  
"The first one, you mean?" Stiles says, biting the inside of his cheek when Derek's eyebrows quirk up in surprise. "It's about the length of my hand, and it curves up so it hits all the good places, you know? I've only managed to try the highest setting once, and it nearly made me shoot my brains out my dick. Or did you mean the other one? It's blue and fills me pretty much to the brim, and it has a suction cup on the back to I can stick it to things like walls or the floor. Me? I'm a wall kind of guy. I'm thinking my next buy will be one of those monster-sized dildos. Something vein-y. I'm not sure yet."  
  
Derek looks like someone just shoved a metal bar through his gut (and it's kind of horrifying that Stiles knows what that specific expression looks like). He blinks at Stiles, looking like he's barely restraining himself from running away. Stiles likes that, in a vengeful and sadistic kind of way. "Uh, good to know," Derek manages. "I'm going to check on the betas."

"Okay," Stiles says, smirking. "Stop by anytime." And if he meant sometime outside of training, perhaps when he had a royal blue dildo shoved up his ass and a tight fist clasped on his dick, well. That went without saying.  
  
But Stiles can't help it but to imagine Derek perched outside his window when he's alone that night, jerking off and fantasizing about lean hips and sharp claws. He wasn't lying about the suction cup on Theseus (so named because it could get him hard as stone, ha), but he hasn't yet used it. He isn't even sure if it'll stick to normal walls.  
  
The next morning he tries it, and Theseus drops to the floor, completely disinterested in sticking to Stile's wall. Suction cups need a flat, non-porous surface, and Stiles spends long minutes wracking his brain for a solution. He nearly brains himself when he comes up with it, because frigging _duh_.  
  
After school Stiles drives to the local hardware store and picks up a cheap plastic mirror, one of those one-foot-by-four-foot numbers college students buy for their dorm rooms. When he gets home he raids his dad's tool supply for a drill, a screwdriver, and some screws, and he gets to work. It's pretty easy to attach the mirror to the wall opposite his window. All Stiles has to do is drill through the plastic and drywall and screw the mirror into place. He tugs on it a little to test its sturdiness and, satisfied, sticks Theseus to it. Perfect.  
  
The Sheriff's on night patrol that evening, so Stiles does his homework quickly to test his new set up. It's awkward, positioning himself against a wall, and his calves keep getting in the way, but eventually Stiles figures out how to position his body so he can push onto Theseus without too much discomfort. Then it's almost stupidly easy. Stiles rocks his body back onto the vibrator, which is just a normal dildo for now because Stiles wants to get a feel for things before he gets to the orgasming phase of his experiment.  
  
It turns out moving his body onto Theseus is far more enjoyable than working it into himself manually, and Stiles finds himself approaching his peak even without the vibration. He comes untouched, groaning gutturally, and he's pretty sure he imagines a flash of red outside his window.  
  
He comes twice more that night, once with Ricardo buzzing away inside him and four fingers jammed into his mouth, and again against the mirror with Theseus. By the time Stiles collapses into bed he's pretty sure he'll never be able to orgasm again, and what a way to go. 

* * *

Derek's acting weird. Well, weirder than normal. It's like he can't decide if he's comfortable around Stiles or not, and that thought is majorly depressing. Stiles never meant to ostracize the dude, he just wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine. Derek's always pushing into Stiles' space, threatening him against walls and asserting his dominance and all those other things Stiles secretly loves but outwardly despises. Stiles just wanted to take control of a conversation for once, to put Derek on the defensive, instead. That plan backfired in a big way.  
  
Derek oscillates between ignoring Stiles and focusing on Stiles with deadly intensity. One second he's pointedly across the yard, the next he's pressed up against Stiles' back, teaching him how to feign punches by guiding his arms through the movements. It's giving Stiles' dick whiplash.  
  
He tries to rationalize it, because he's Stiles and overanalyzing is what he does best. He knows Derek was thrown off-guard by their talk a few days ago, but didn't expect it to still be a problem. Why did Derek ask the question if he didn't want the answer? Hell, why did Derek ask the question at all? Keeping up on his pack's personal lives is one thing, asking for intimate details is another. And Stiles knows Derek wants nothing to do with the sex lives of any of his betas, given the way he frowns at any sign of PDA. Maybe he gets off on mortifying Stiles? Maybe he authentically enjoys getting Stiles uncomfortable. It would certainly explain a lot.  
  
There is one solution that Stiles can't bear to acknowledge: maybe Derek _wants_ him. Maybe Derek wants to know about Stiles' masturbatory methods because he likes it. Maybe it's not Stiles' mortification that gets Derek off: maybe it's Stiles himself.  
  
But that notion is almost laughably ridiculous, and Stiles chooses not to waste emotional energy on it. Stiles has grown to like Derek on a personal level. Derek is funny and sarcastic and kind-hearted, and he hides under a massive shield of apathy because his heart is too big and too scarred to get attached to anything else that may up and die on him. Derek, in many ways, is just as young as his pack, because he never got to grow up normally, and that's absolutely devastating. So Stiles likes him, he's _in like_ with him, if you will, and he doesn't want to think about Derek liking him back because he's not sure he can handle that amount of emotion.  
  
Stiles grew up to be a nurturing sort of person. He learned to take care of his dad after his mom died, and he had to watch out for Scott and his asthma, and eventually that grew into a maternal instinct that feels less emasculating than it sounds. When he looks at Derek, that complex rises to the surface. Stiles wants to bone him, sure, but he also wants to swaddle Derek into a mass of blankets and mother him until he stops scowling at the world. He wants to cook Derek breakfast and cuddle Derek during a movie. He wants to find an unscarred bit of that heart of his and latch on as tight as he can. He knows that's selfish, because he's a squishy human in a world of sharp objects and Derek doesn't deserve to lose anyone else, but he can't help it. Now that he's seen under Derek's armor he wants to live there permanently, fuck the consequences.  
  
And all of it is meaningless, anyway. Stiles is a mass of bones and insecurity held together by sarcasm. He's the opposite of sexy. He met Kate Argent, who was beautiful and polished and apparently what Derek is (or, at least, _was_ ) attracted to, and Stiles is the opposite of all of it. And he's okay with that, really. He just needs to accept that his feelings for Derek are unrequited.  
  
At the next meeting, he pulls Derek aside. "Hey, man, I want to apologize," he says, scratching at his chest.  
  
"About what?" Derek asks, tilting his head to the side. Stiles ignores how adorable that is; there's a time and a place, and this isn't it.  
  
"About what I said the other day," Stiles replies, looking Derek in the eye even though his heart is about to jackhammer out of his ribcage. "I was way out of line, I know you didn't want to hear any of that shit. I'm not sure why you were asking me about it in the first place, but that doesn't really matter. You're obviously uncomfortable around me now, and that's my bad."  
  
Derek shifts on his feet, throat working. "I was the one who was prying into your life, it's not your fault--"  
  
"Derek," Stiles cuts him off, "it's okay. I don't care. I'm used to embarrassing myself on the daily, and I've been in far worse situations than this. I just want us to be okay. You're my Alpha, and I dislike being on the outs with you."  
  
Derek's nostrils flare. "You consider me your Alpha?"  
  
Stiles blinks at him. Wasn't that obvious? "Of course I do. You train with me and make sure my grades are good and you ask me invasive question about my un-sex life. You keep track of me just like you keep track of your betas. Isn't that what Alphas are all about?"  
  
Derek ducks his head, but Stiles sees the way his lips tug up anyways, and it makes his heart warm. "Okay."  
  
Stiles grins at him. "Okay. So we're good?"  
  
"Yeah," Derek says, finally relaxing his posture. "Yeah, we're good."  
  
Stiles claps him on the shoulder. "Awesome. Hey, I aced that History test by the way. Good call on the Custer thing, because that ended up being an essay question."  
  
"Yeah?" Derek looks pleased. "Nice to know Draper hasn't changed her tests in ten years."  
  
Stiles laughs, and they make their way into the living room for the meeting. He would be lying if he said their talk didn't break his heart a little; Derek _was_ uncomfortable with knowing about Stiles' sex life, after all, and that sucked. Still, it was worth the heartbreak to have Derek sitting next to him, like usual, instead of on the opposite side of the room.  
  
That night is the first in a long time that he doesn't jerk off before falling asleep. He put himself through the emotional ringer enough for a while, and coming to thoughts of Derek has lost its appeal for the moment.  
  
He dreams of shy, hidden smiles and warm green eyes, and he tries to pretend it doesn't mean a thing.

* * *

Life seems to even out over the next two months. Stiles is getting better and better at hand-to-hand combat; he's even caught Allison on the defensive more than once. The bestiary is nearly three gigabytes large, and ever-expanding. Stiles and Lydia are starting to order books in from around the world, and Stiles thinks that they may have the most comprehensive encyclopedia of supernatural creatures in the entire world. It's a good feeling.  
  
His relationship with Derek is the best it's ever been. Derek spends most of his time working with the betas, but occasionally he plops down next to Stiles and watches him do homework. Stiles is delighted to discover that Derek enjoys logarithms and, once he proves to the Alpha that he knows the material well enough, sets Derek to do his math worksheets. He always knew Derek was a closet nerd.  
  
Sometimes Stiles forgets himself and touches Derek. It isn't conspicuous or overtly sexual, a hand on the knee or bicep, and Stiles never realizes he's doing it until he has to move his hand away. When Derek starts reciprocating, however, Stiles takes notice. It begins with Derek testing his muscle tension during training, making sure he's going through the steps correctly to avoid injury. It's understandable enough, but it doesn't explain how Derek sits close enough at meetings that their legs connect from hip to knee, or the way Derek will peer over his shoulder and press his chest up against Stiles' back.  
  
It's not much, but Stiles is a horny teenager, so his every sense is on hyperdrive when Derek approaches and his skin sings when Derek touches him. Stiles acts like he doesn't care, but those nights are the nights he fucks himself onto Theseus the hardest, whimpering Derek's name and hating himself for taking advantage of Derek's companionship.  
  
This day has been particularly long and grueling. Stiles walks into his bedroom and shuts the door, shoving the heel of his palm against his rock hard dick. Derek was all over him today, tugging at his hair and grasping him around the waist to show him a more powerful fighting stance. Stiles is lucky he didn't combust on site.  
  
He peels off his clothes and collapses on the bed, stripping his cock with fast, tight strokes. He's been hard for hours so this first orgasm won't take him long at all. He remembers the press of Derek against his back and the way his massive hands had fit around his waist, then imagines how those hands would feel tugging him back onto Derek's cock. He comes with a sigh and suckles his come-soaked fingers, wondering what kind of acrobatic position he should try tonight. He feels pent up, like electricity is arcing underneath his skin, and suddenly he knows exactly what he wants to try.  
  
His walls are too porous to support Theseus but his hardwood floor works just fine. Stiles hasn't tried this yet, but he's felt out of control all day and he wants to take Theseus this way, like he's riding Derek. He opens himself up quickly-- lots of experience has made this step all too easy-- and kneels above Theseus, feeling the silicone tip nudge at his entrance. He reaches under himself and holds Theseus in place as he shifts down, feeling the dildo slide into his channel. Stiles groans and rests his hands on either side of his feet, stretching back so Theseus pushes at his prostate. Setting up a rhythm is a little difficult because it makes his thighs burn, but Stiles figures it out pretty quickly.  
  
Stiles groans and sinks onto Theseus as far as he can go. He rocks his hips forward and plays with his nipples, imagining it's Derek underneath him. Derek wouldn't know what to do with himself, Stiles thinks. His hands would be everywhere, flicking at Stiles' pulse and gripping his thighs and clutching at the ground for purchase. His eyes would flicker red and _God_ , that is so hot, is Stiles developing a kink? He’d be riding a fucking _Alpha werewolf_ , all that power underneath him and around him and _inside him_.  
  
Stiles imagines he sees red eyes beyond his window and groans. It’s his favorite delusion, that Derek is just outside Stiles’ window and he’s watching everything Stiles does. It makes Stiles thrust just a little bit harder, move just a little more sinuously.  
  
There’s a creak from outside Stiles’ window and he freezes, because he _knows_ he didn’t imagine that. “Derek?” he asks quietly, resting on his knees. “Derek is that you?”  
  
If Derek is out there, he doesn’t reply, but Stiles knows that doesn’t mean much. Even if he isn’t there, the reaffirmation of the idea is thrilling, and it has Stiles talking as he picks up his pace. “God, Derek, the things you could do to me. I want you all over me, Jesus. Bet you could fuck me so much better than a dildo, couldn't you?" He moans and reaches for his dick, stroking it lightly. "Fuck, Der, I want you inside me so bad. You tease me so much, rubbing up against me like you know exactly what it does, you probably _do_ know what it does, you perfect goddamned asshole." He twists his wrist and cries out as he comes _hard_ , spilling over his hand and onto the floor.  
  
He rests for a moment on Theseus, panting. He knows he's riding on some serious afterglow, but something in him says he's just tapped into a resource he's never considered before. He always runs his mouth, yet he never tried running it in the bedroom. How has he not done that yet? It was liberating and kept his fantasy alive. He pulls himself up off Theseus and takes it to the bathroom to clean off. As he's soaping it up, he decides to try talking dirty to himself more. If nothing else, it'll be an exercise in focus. 

* * *

Stiles isn't sure what happened, but Derek's even more loom-y than before, and he's not sure how to feel about it. On one hand, it's really validating to have someone's undivided attention like that, especially when it's from Derek Hale, but it's also a little aggravating. Stiles sighs. "As delightful as your shadow is, amigo, I can't see my homework."  
  
"Sorry," Derek replies hurriedly, quickly moving away from Stiles toward where Erica and Isaac are sparring. That was another thing: as soon as Stiles calls Derek out on his frankly stalker-ish behavior, the dude turns tail and runs away. Talk about mixed signals. Stiles wonders what he's done to deserve such focus and almost immediately winces because it can't be anything good. Maybe Derek found out about that C he got on his Trig quiz. How he could find that out when Stiles just got the paper back this afternoon, Stiles couldn't say, but stranger things have happened.  
  
Another day, a week later, Stiles catches Derek sniffing at him. "Dude, what the fuck?!"  
  
Derek's ears turn red. "You smell… I have to go." He busies himself at the tree line, and Stiles is surprised to see that the back of his neck is just as red as his ears. Just what did Stiles smell like? He sniffs under his arm; just deodorant there. Then, in a moment of mortifying clarity, he remembers how he forgot to shower this morning because he woke up late, and the night before he'd come all over his stomach and mopped it up with Kleenex. Oh. That's what Derek smelled. Well, damn.  
  
That night, he loosens himself up in the shower and fucks himself on Ricardo. Filthy nonsense spews from his mouth, something he'd found on an alternative porn website about werewolves having knots that he can't get out of his head. He's pretty sure he's said "breed me so good" at least four times, but he's really not keeping track.  
  
He hears the noise at the window again and, again, he stops. "Derek, if that's you, just get in here and stop shadowing me like some lost puppy. I swear to God."  
  
He doesn't think anyone's there-- he just says it because it gives him the creeps and his response to fear has always been snarky humor-- which is why he's shocked when the window slides open. Derek climbs through and shuts the window behind himself, looking ashamed. "I'm sorry, Stiles."  
  
Stiles is frozen. His mind is completely stuck, because Derek _was_ out there. He _was_ watching. Maybe he always has been. Belatedly he realizes he's naked and he's still got a vibrator buzzing in his ass, and he hurries to turn it off and make himself decent. "Fuck, uh, hey."  
  
"I should go," Derek mutters, looking absolutely distraught.  
  
"No, stop," Stiles says before he can stop himself. "Uh, hi. Um, how long have you been watching me?"  
  
"About five minutes." It's a non-answer and they both know it. Stiles is almost impressed by the diversion.  
  
"Clever. Now, for real. How long?"  
  
"Since September," Derek says, eyes fixed on his own feet. Stiles feels like the floor's dropped out under his feet.  
  
"But that's when I bought Ricardo," he whispers, blinking up at Derek.  
  
"You named it Ricardo?" Derek snorts. "Like Montalban?"  
  
Stiles isn't sure Derek even knows what Adventure Time is, but he's sure not going to get into that now. "Sure, yeah. Whatever. You've been spying on me since then?"  
  
Derek shifts. "There's no good answer to that question."  
  
Stiles laughs. Is this real life? "Fuck yes there is, buddy. You tell me you've been into me for months, I throw this piece of plastic aside, and you give me the real thing. I mean, it might not be a _great_ answer, but I'll take it."  
  
"I've wanted you for almost a year," Derek says quietly. Stiles drops Ricardo, because _damn_.  
  
"You never said anything, though," Stiles protests. "For real?"  
  
"You're _seventeen_ , Stiles," Derek points out, and Stiles is manfully ignoring how much it sounds like a whine.  
  
"I'll be eighteen in two months, you jerk," he scoffs. "And you've been peeking through my window, so that argument's way invalid. Are you telling me you watched me jerk off every night about you, and you never did a thing about it? Man, no wonder you hang over me so much."  
  
Derek makes a pathetic sound high in his throat, and the next thing Stiles knows he has his arms wrapped around Derek's neck and is pressing their lips together. Derek is stone under his hands for a second, but then he's all action. Stiles was right: his hands are everywhere. There's something dangerously sexy about being nakedly pressed up against someone fully dressed, Stiles discovers. He bets being pressed nakedly up against more nakedness is better, though. He shoves at Derek's leather jacket until Derek gets the idea and shucks it off. He pulls off his sweater while Stiles attacks the button on his jeans and shoves them down his legs. A minute later they're pressed together again, all hot skin and electric touches.  
  
Derek latches onto Stiles' neck and Stiles moans loudly into the open room. He cards his hands through Derek's hair and presses his body up, and _whoa_ that's Derek's dick. That's definitely what that is. Wowza.  
  
Derek pushes Stiles until he's up against a wall. "Do you know how much you tormented me?" he growls, digging his fingers into Stiles' hips. Stiles whimpers and doesn't say a word, too strung out on sensation to do much more than take whatever Derek's giving him. "Your long fingers and your perfect fucking lips and _Jesus_ your ass, Stiles, you could start wars with that ass." Derek slides his hands back until he's cupping it. "Even before that text, Stiles, the things I wanted to do to this ass. Do you have any idea?"  
  
"You have first-hand knowledge of my fantasies," Stiles grinds out, "you tell me."  
  
Derek makes a broken noise and kisses Stiles like he's starving for it. Stiles opens up under him, drunk on the way Derek tastes and smells and feels. Maybe he died and this is some sort of sex-death related afterlife? Only, Derek _feels_ real enough. "Fuck," Derek says, "you're like a walking wet dream, Stiles."  
  
Stiles laughs weakly. "Nice to meet you, kettle. Call me pot." Derek grins at him, and Stiles can't help but smile back. "I'll accept reciprocal terms of sexyness. Please continue."  
  
Derek scoops him up by the backs of his thighs. Stiles yelps and wraps his legs around Derek on instinct, then groans when it pushed their cocks together. "Fuck now, talk later."  
  
"Yep, yes, yep," Stiles agrees, patting Derek on the shoulders to get him moving. "Come on, bed, let's go."  
  
Derek drops Stiles on the bed and he bounces, beaming. Derek stands over him, looking like some kind of angry and breathtaking angel. Stiles wonders, again, if maybe this is purgatory for the sexually depraved. If so, congrats to the sexually depraved. Derek crawls on the bed and licks a stripe up Stiles' cock, and Stiles just about screams because _holy shit Derek Hale just licked his dick_.  
  
Derek shifts until he's cradled in the vee of Stiles' legs. “Where's your lube?”  
  
Stiles glances up at his nightstand, where his lube lies, unassuming, like it doesn't know Stiles is about to lose his virginity-- oh. Right. It wouldn't. Derek grabs the lube and slicks up his fingers. “Dude, I already did that,” Stiles says impatient.  
  
“Not for me, you haven't,” Derek grunts. Stiles looks down at Derek's cock and squeezes his eyes shut to avoid coming. Derek isn't huge, but he's bigger than anything Stiles has taken before, and that makes his mouth water. Derek rubs two fingers at the rim of Stiles' hole, teasing, before sliding them inside. Stiles grinds down until Derek starts scissoring him open in preparation for a third.  
  
Finally, after what feels like a cosmic age of frustration for both of them, Derek pulls his fingers out and lubes up his cock. "Are you ready?"  
  
"Jesus, Derek," Stiles says, voice reedy. "I was ready ten minutes ago."  
  
Derek laughs. Stiles opens his mouth to yell at him for being an asshole, but the sound comes out as a moan as Derek pushes in with one smooth thrust. They both inhale when Derek bottoms out. "You okay?" Derek asks through gritted teeth.  
  
Stiles almost makes a sarcastic comment, because _of course_ he's okay, but he realizes that Derek is taking the time to check up on him, and that's actually pretty sweet. "Yeah," he says, smiling softly, "I'm doing great, big guy."  
  
"Just great?" Derek asks, nuzzling at Stiles' throat. "I think we can do better than that." He grabs one of Stiles' legs just above the knee and tugs it over his hip, then thrusts into Stiles deeply. Stiles shudders, and what's left of his rational brain mocks him for fucking himself into a mirror for so long. Why do that when the real thing was so much better?  
  
As if on cue, Derek starts talking. "Fuck, Stiles, all those times I watched you fuck yourself… and you told me about the wall and then you fucking _did it_ and that mirror was so fucking perfect, Stiles, God. I saw _everything_. It took everything in me to stop myself from breaking into your house to show you how it's really done."  
  
"You're doing a marvelous job so far," Stiles gasps. He didn't expect Derek to be a loquacious bed partner, but _shit_ is he not complaining. Not when Derek is feeding into every fantasy Stiles has had for the past three months. "Very-- fuck-- educational."  
  
"And when you would say my name," Derek continues, sounding like gravel, "fuck, especially when you were coming, all I wanted to do was rub myself all over you." Stiles clenches automatically, because he would like two servings of Derek-rubbing, please. Derek growls, a rumble that builds from his chest and builds up until its pouring out between clenched teeth-- make those fangs-- and his eyes flash red.  
  
Stiles circles his hips up as best he can. He didn't think Derek's wolfiness would be such a turn-on, but tonight was the night for pleasant surprises. "Derek," he moans, "please, I need--"  
  
"I know exactly what you need." The words are barely intelligible because Derek has to talk around his fangs. He grips onto Stiles' hips and pistons into him.  
  
"Fuck!" Stiles punches out. He's not going to last long like this, with Derek hitting his prostate on every thrust. He can already feel his orgasm pushing up out of him. "Derek, Der, I'm-- shit, right there, fuck-- I'm gonna come."  
  
"Fuck yes, do it, Stiles, fucking do it," Derek hisses. Stiles curls a hand around his dick and pulls once, and he's coming between them with a choked off cry. Derek snarls and drives into Stiles a few more times before burrowing his head into Stiles' neck and emptying himself inside Stiles. Derek collapses, panting, flat onto Stiles' chest, and it says something that Stiles doesn't complain about it. He's far too busy trying to catch his breath.  
  
Apparently it doesn't need saying. A few seconds later Derek pulls out with a grimace and flops down next to Stiles. Stiles winces; the movement jostles his ass, which is suddenly feeling wet and gross. He lifts himself up with a tired groan and walks carefully (it's not a limp, dammit, he's not that fragile) to the bathroom to clean himself up. When he comes back Derek is tucked into bed, looking sleepy. "I should have known you were the use and snooze type," Stiles snorts, climbing into bed next to him. He thinks things should feel awkward, but they don't. Rather, it feels like he's been missing a part of his routine all this time, and now it's here, with him, instead of lurking outside his bedroom window.  
  
"I had a very stressful day," Derek grumbles into Stiles' pillow. "Someone decided to come to training smelling like come and I had to do six laps around the preserve to keep from making a scene in front of the rest of my pack."  
  
Stiles sticks out his lower lip mockingly. "Life is so hard for you," he commiserates, lifting one of Derek's arms so he can scoot up against his body. "What are you going to do about it?"  
  
"Sleep," Derek responds, words slurred and quiet. "And then fuck you into the mattress again. Maybe I'll use one of your toys and come all over your back. I dunno yet."  
  
Stiles swallows thickly. "O-okay," he stutters. "I'm game for, Jesus, all of that."  
  
But Derek's already asleep, mouth open to show his ridiculous front teeth. Stiles smiles to himself and gets comfortable. He has a sex life to look forward to, and something tells him he'll need all the energy he can get.  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: I didn't tag it underage because, in my mind, it doesn't quite qualify for that sort of stigma, but Stiles is just under eighteen. So, if you consider that ephebophilia, I'm sorry.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feel free to follow me [on Tumblr.](jenetica.tumblr.com)


End file.
